


No Excuses

by samidha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Parent John Winchester, Episode Related, Episode: s03e08 A Very Supernatural Christmas, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John Winchester's Journal, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-19
Updated: 2008-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: Sam finds out the truth about hunting. Dean and John react. (Prompt inside.)





	No Excuses

**Author's Note:**

> This was a response to the following 3 prompts for an episodic fic challenge.
> 
> How did John find out that Sam knew the truth? Did one of the boys blurt it out the second he walked through the door? Did Dean take him aside later, confess, and take all the blame?  
> What did they do with the girl presents?  
> How did they explain those to John?

Broken Bow, Nebraska – Christmas Eve 1991

Sam tucked his father’s journal under his bed, and was running for the bathroom as Dean came awake.

“Very funny, Sammy,” Dean growled, “you better hurry up, I have to pee.”

“Two minutes, Dean,” Sam called from behind the closed door. “I need a drink is all.”

Dean sighed and squirmed as the sink began to run. “So I’ll get you a Sprite from the vending machine. Jesus, Sammy!”

Sam ignored him, letting the water run over his hands and looking at his reflection in the mirror. He had to calm down. Dean couldn’t know he had the journal, never mind that he’d read it.

He splashed water over his pale features and scrubbed at his eyes. Then he forced himself to start thinking happy thoughts. He thought of mint chocolate chip ice cream and watching Ghostbusters and sleeping in one of Dean’s big shirts. 

“Sammy!”

“One second!”

It would have to be good enough. He turned the water off, ran a hand over his eyes again, and opened the bathroom door. Dean ran in at top speed, and Sam should have known he wouldn’t notice anyway—he was Dean. He just didn’t think the way Sam did.

Sam sat on the big, ugly, scratchy, brown couch in front of the television and flipped through the channels, looking in vain for anything that didn’t mention Christmas. With every change of the channel, he sank a little bit further into the seat, drooping. Dad wasn’t going to be here. He just knew it. Dad might not ever come home again.

Sam didn’t know why he stole the journal. Of course, he wanted to know things, he always did, but stealing was something Dean would do. And when Dad found out—if he did—Sam was going to regret it for the rest of his life. He already did. If even one of the things he’d read was real—if what it said about Mom was real…. Sam’s stomach flipped.

“Hurry up, Dean!”

“You were just _in_ here, brat.”

Sam winced. Maybe he should tell Dean how bad he felt. He didn’t have to say why. The insult stung, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t learned to expect from his older brother. If he told Dean, he might just feel bad enough about what he said to—

“My stomach hurts.”

There was only silence from behind the door. He imagined Dean rolling his green eyes. But when Dean spoke, there wasn’t any bite behind the words. He just sounded tired.

“Okay,” Dean said. “You sure you need the toilet?”

Sam swallowed hard and nodded at no one. The door to the bathroom hadn’t opened yet. “Yeah.”

Dean emerged with a sigh. “I’ll get you some Pepto, okay? But you have to promise you’re not gonna go anywhere and you’re not gonna freak out while I’m gone.”

 _Too late._ Sam nodded.

“Okay, get in there.” Dean watched him carefully. “You look like somebody kicked your puppy, Sam,” he observed.

Sam ducked away and headed for the bathroom without answering.

“I’ll be back in five minutes. And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

Dean bit his lip and held back the words. Sam was too young for Dean to tell him how much one bottle of Pepto Bismol was going to set them back, limit them to crap out of the vending machines for days if Dad didn’t get back soon.

“Nothin’,” Dean said. “Back in five minutes. If you go anywhere—“

“Won’t.” The bathroom door shut behind Sam, and when he heard Dean go out the motel room door he let the tears loose for the first time.

*~*~*

Sam had dutifully taken the Pepto under Dean’s watchful eye, and he’d only thrown up one time. He knew he wasn’t actually sick, unless you could scare yourself into getting sick. He also knew he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see his Dad again. He was working up the courage to ask Dean about it. He had to. If Dad wasn’t ever coming back, he needed to know, even if it meant he had nightmares for the rest of his life.

Dean was looking out the motel window, watching the snow fall, and Sam was wrapping the one present he had—for his Dad, when Sam started to get really nervous he wouldn’t be able to actually give it to anyone. He was going to wrap it, though. He had to at least do that or he was going to go too crazy. He folded it up in newspaper and picked up the Scotch tape. Dean surprised him when he spoke.

“What is that?” Dean asked.

“A present. For Dad.”

“Yeah, right. Where’d you get the money? D’you steal it?”

Sam glowered up at him. Just because Dean would have stolen the money didn’t mean Sam was that stupid. “No! Uncle Bobby gave it to me to give to him. Said it was real special.”

“What is it?” Dean asked. He was probably actually curious, Sam decided. For one thing, Sam knew that Dean could figure out the present had to do with hunting, and for another, Dean hadn’t thought of finding Dad something.

“A pony,” Sam said triumphantly, playing his big brother’s usual game.

“Very funny,” Dean said, obviously not amused. Maybe now he knew how Sam felt most of the time.

Sam saw his opening as Dean joined him on the couch, flipping through a copy of Hot Rod magazine but not really looking. Sam knew he’d had that copy for weeks now. 

“Dad’s gonna be here, right?” Sam asked.

“He’ll be here,” Dean assured automatically.

“It’s Christmas.”

“He knows. And he’ll be here. Promise.”

They looked at each other, each of them knowing they were lying. Dad’s work didn’t stop for anything. All that they could count on for the holidays, when they had them, was one of their dad’s black moods. He would evade their questions, bark some orders, and offer up half-hearted apologies before laying into a six-pack of Miller. It crossed Sam’s mind that maybe they were better off without him. But he couldn’t stand the idea of never seeing Dad again. So he kept pressing Dean.

“Where is he, anyway?”

“On business.”

“What kind of business?”

“You know that,” Dean said, irritated. “He sells stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Stuff.”

“Nobody ever tells me anything,” Sam said.

“Then quit asking.”

“Is Dad a spy?” Sam asked, half expecting the answer to be yes.

“Mmhmm. He’s James Bond,” Dean deadpanned.

“Why do we move around so much?”

“’Cause everywhere we go,” Dean said, “they get sick of your face.” Like it was obvious—the easiest answer in the world.

Sam hopped over the couch easily, facing his brother with determination. “I’m old enough, Dean. You can tell me the truth.”

“You don’t want to know the truth,” Dean said low, slow and serious. “Believe me.” Just like that they admitted the lie to each other.

Sam knew he was pushing, but if he was going to get any truth out of his brother, he knew what he had to know. Had to. “Is that why we never talk about—Mom?”

Dean’s face went pale and it was his turn to look sick. Mostly, though, he was angry. “Shut up!” he yelled. “Don’t you ever talk about Mom! Ever!” He was running for the door.

“Wait! Where are you _going_?” Sam called after him. He hadn’t expected this. What if Dad never came back and something happened to Dean in the snow?

But Dean didn’t care. He never worried about himself that way. “Out!” he supplied, seconds before the motel room door slammed behind him.

Merry Christmas, Sam.

Sam switched the TV off. It was showing Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. It was Dean who turned it on, so Sam hadn’t complained, but he couldn’t stand to watch it by himself. He was going to get through tonight by pretending it was any other night when Dean had stormed off to play video games or go for a run. He didn’t want it to be Christmas. Fighting with Dean was bad enough without it being Christmas Eve with Dad nowhere to be found.

Sam curled up on his bed, flipping the bottle of Pepto upside down and watching the pink goop fill the top half of the container. Then he flipped it back. It was good for about half an hour of mind-numbing motel room “entertainment.” When he couldn’t watch that anymore he did what he always did, even though he only had one option in the room. Sam leaned down to pick up the journal from under his bed and started to read again.

Dean came back. Sam tried to pretend he hadn’t been counting minutes, hadn’t even thought about the possibility of needing his brother to walk back into the room. “Thought you went out,” he said, forcing lightness into the words.

“Yeah, to get you dinner,” Dean said, in his usual put-upon older brother voice. Reporting a foregone conclusion. He didn’t say “duh,” but he could have. Sam caught the two vending machine snacks easily. “Don’t forget your vegetables,” Dean said as he tossed the potato chips.

Just like any other stupid motel stay. Except that the journal was under Sam’s bed. His stomach rolled again.

He had to let Dean know that he knew things now, that Dean couldn’t keep pretending and telling silly little lies. He crossed the room and sat down on his bed, across from Dean. “I know why you keep a gun under your pillow,” he challenged.

Dean glared at him for a second before revealing the gun, shoulders hunching as dread set in. “No you don’t,” Dean said, a last-ditch effort. “Stay out of my stuff.”

“And I know why we lay salt down everywhere we go.”

“No you don’t. Shut up.”

Then Sam did it. He ducked under his bed and pulled the journal out, presenting it to Dean. 

Dean stared at Sam as if he had grown an extra head. “Where’d you get that? That’s Dad’s! He’s gonna kick your _ass_ for reading that!” Dean looked a little sick again. Sam knew he must be trying to think of some way to cover for little Sammy, and he was probably coming up empty. Sam was doomed. He’d known that the moment he’d lifted the journal, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He needed to know.

“Are monsters real?”

“What? You’re crazy.”

“Tell me.”

Dean looked from his little brother to the journal Sam had obviously stolen, and back, searching for anything to say. Somehow, though, they were going to have to deal with Sam’s little klepto move, and that meant Sam was going to have to know what an idiot he’d been for stealing that. That meant telling the truth.

“I swear if you tell Dad I told you any of this, I will end you.”

“Promise.”

“First thing you have to know is… we have the coolest dad in the world.”

*~*~*

Dean couldn’t stand looking at Sam anymore. His younger brother was curled up on his side, crying. Dean had told him everything—that their father was hunting right now, that Sam would just have to trust Dean that he was okay, that John Winchester was basically invincible. He’d even had to tell Sam that Santa wasn’t real, and he wasn’t entirely convinced that wasn’t the reason Sam was crying. 

But the important thing was that Dean had made Sam cry. Dean had. Since Dean was four years old and had carried Sam from their burning house back in Lawrence, he’d known that his only real job in life was keeping Sam safe, taking care of him, and keeping him happy. He wasn’t supposed to make Sam cry. Dammit.

He had to make it up to Sam somehow.

He had to wait and watch until Sam fell asleep. He’d decided that was his punishment. While he watched, he thought up a plan. As soon as Sam’s breathing had evened out Dean slipped out of the motel room again and started to scout.

He didn’t have to go a full block before he saw a house he knew he could get into. Their Christmas tree was small, and it would be easy to get back to the room. He fingered a straightened paperclip in his pocket and slipped up to the house.

Once he got inside, he realized he would probably have to make another stop. There were stockings up, but only a handful of presents, and he didn’t want to take all of them or anything. Maybe the people here were only married or something. Dean guessed there weren’t any kids, especially because the house was nice. They could afford presents, if they wanted them. He’d have to look for another place. He was glad about the tree here, though. Dragging one all over Broken Bow in this snowstorm was not his idea of a good time. 

Three years of his dad’s drills and training were paying off. He managed to get the tree without waking anyone. He headed back to the room, got the tree set up, and redid the ornaments that had fallen off in transit. Sam slept through it all, too, or at least he pretended to sleep. From the way Sam had looked after the talk with Dean, it was Dean’s guess that he’d never want to wake up again.

But Dean was going to make it up to him. He was. With that thought he left to look for presents.

Luckily the next nice house Dean found did have kids. There were five stockings at the fireplace and three were small. Dean grabbed the presents with the least goofy-looking wrapping, thinking he’d have to pass them off as wrapped by their Dad, and Dad was not going to wrap anything with teddy bears in Santa hats. He set off, pleased with his handiwork. 

When he’d gotten everything in place back in the room, he went to Sam’s bed and shook him awake. “Dad was here. Look what he brought!”

“Dad was here?”

“Yeah. Look at this, we made a killing!”

Sam eyed Dean suspiciously, his face still full of sleep. “Why didn’t he try to wake me up?”

Dean hadn’t thought of that. He recovered quickly, though. “He tried to, like a thousand times.”

Sam wasn’t entirely convinced. Still, there _were_ presents.

“Go on. Dive in,” Dean said.

Sam grabbed two presents from under the tree and tore into the first one.

“What is it?”

“Sapphire Barbie,” Sam said with confusion and distaste.

“Dad probably thinks you’re a girl,” Dean said, trying to keep his tone light. This was not going as he had planned.

The second present was a baton. With sparkles, and shiny streamers.

“Dad never showed, did he?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, he did, I swear,” Dean insisted, grasping at straws, silently cursing himself for not being able to make it up to Sam after all.

“Dean, where did you get this stuff?”

Dean stared at Sam for a long, uncomfortable minute before he admitted to stealing the damn girl presents. He sighed. “Nice-house-up-the-block,” he said as quietly and quickly as he could. “I swear, I didn’t know they were chick presents.” 

Sam just watched Dean, unsure of why he was so surprised by the whole thing. Maybe because it all hurt more than he’d expected it to. Dean looked almost as disappointed as Sam felt, though, and maybe that was why Sam reached for the little newspaper-wrapped package he’d set aside for their father.

“Here,” he said simply, handing it to Dean.

Dean shook his head. “No. It’s for Dad.”

“Dad lied to me,” Sam said earnestly. “I want you to have it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Dean unwrapped the package, looking down at a small metal pendant on a black cord. It was cool to the touch, and to Dean’s surprise he immediately wanted to put it on. It felt… safe. It felt good. He held it in his hand, slightly stunned by how much he meant it when he said, “Thank you, Sam. I love it.”

Sam nodded a little, but he didn’t smile. He felt like he’d grown up about five years today—and he still felt sick. He went to his bed and started turning the bottle of Pepto over in his hands again.

Dean watched him silently, trying not to feel hurt and worried. He hated seeing Sam like this. No matter how much he teased his little brother, when Sam was honestly hurting, Dean could barely stand to see it. And Sam was hurting. Tonight, Dean had played a part in putting that hurt there. He wouldn’t forget that. He hoped he would never forget. 

2.

Sam didn’t wait five minutes after Dean had put on the amulet before calling on his older brother to make amends for his stunt with the girl presents.

“You ruined someone else’s Christmas, Dean,” he said, while they both sat there staring at the door, hoping to hear the rumble of the Impala’s engine in the parking lot despite themselves.

Dean bit his lip and stood up in a rush. “I’ll put them back, okay?”

Sam nodded. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. It wasn’t up to Sam what his brother did.

“I mean it.” Dean dove for the presents, gathering them up in piles to take back down the street. He stormed out of the motel room again, laden down with a little girl’s presents, without giving Sam a second look.

It took Dean almost an hour to get rid of the presents and the tree. He’d asked Sam if they could keep the tree, but Sam had just given him a sad little kid face and shook his head. Dean punched the stupid little table between their beds a few times in frustration before looking up into Sam’s face, nodding, and taking the tree back outside.

Dean trudged back to the motel, coming in without saying one word to Sam. His brother was turning the bottle of Pepto over and over in his hands and looking miserable.

“Dad could still be here in the morning,” Dean said.

Sam wanted to glare at him, but he was just too tired. “Yeah. I bet.”

Dean looked at him. “You know he’d be here if he could. Something must have—“

Sam blanched. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, and curled up back on his side on his bed.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Sam, you know things come up.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Dean lay down. Maybe he could just sleep until their dad showed up. It was possible. He could be on the road right now.

*~*~*

John pulled into the motel lot late on Christmas evening. He had tried to make better time, but he’d gone into a hunt on his own at the first sign of demonic omens, without calling Bobby or Caleb or Jim. In the end he was no closer to the trail for Mary’s killer than he’d ever been, and he was late for Christmas.

_Good job, John. Way to be a dad._

He walked up to the motel room door and tapped out the family’s signature knock .

Dean answered it, looking exhausted, with an uncharacteristic glint of defiance in his eye.

Well, if there was ever a time for his son to give him a little bit of teenaged rebellion, the night after John had missed Christmas seemed like as good a time as any. “Listen, Dean,” he began in a half-hearted defense, “things were—“ He glanced around for Sammy, caught sight of him, and chose his words carefully, “tough on the road, lots of traffic with people traveling and everything.”

Dean rolled his eyes and walked over to his bed.

 _Okay. I probably deserved that_ , John thought. It was the look on Sammy’s face that ripped into John and left him bare, though. Sammy was giving him a look that said he didn’t trust John farther than he could throw him.

 _One day soon I’m not gonna be able to lie to that kid anymore_.

“I know you weren’t out selling things,” Sam said, and Dean’s eyes widened as far as they could go. Sam knew he’d promised he wouldn’t let Dad know Dean told him anything, but he didn’t have to. He had the journal. “You should know not to lie to me, Dad,” he said, like he was talking to a child much younger than he was. “You should know I’m smart. And I can read.” He met his father’s eyes with a glare.

“Sammy—“ Dean warned.

“What the hell is this, Dean?” John asked.

“Stop it!” Sam demanded. “Talk to _me_. I’m talking to you. Not him.”

John kept his gaze on his older son. He was not ready to have this conversation, not on Christmas, not ever. This was not happening.

“What is this?” he asked Dean again.

Red-faced, Sam leaned down to get the journal out from under his bed and Dean rocketed up off of his own spot and ran to face their father. “Sir, it’s my fault, I thought it was time Sam knew so I—“

“Stop it, Dean,” Sam said. His voice was cold. “I see you with this book all the time,” he said, holding the journal out to his father. “And you thought I’d never think about it. Well, I did. I knew it was important, so I stole it. You and Dean never tell me anything, and you steal all the time, so I thought it should be my turn. Just so I could—“

John ran forward, grabbing the book out of Sam’s hands with dread clear on his face. 

“Take it. I don’t care. I read the whole thing. I remember things.”

“Sam!” Dean hissed. “Shut _up_!” 

John knew the words spoken could never be undone. Dean couldn’t do anything now no matter how much he wanted to—and John knew he wanted to fix this, to spare Sam. That was what John taught him, all too well.

John stared at his youngest son. He set his jaw in an expression Sam would take as his own in the years to come. He recognized the look on Sammy’s face—an unspoken but unmistakable challenge. Sam wanted John to say something—anything—to him. John wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He turned on his heel and headed out the door, straight for the bar.

It was closed. Christmas. Great. John needed to be reminded of _that_. He went to the car and pulled out the emergency stash he had under the hidden weapons rack. The stash was something he started keeping after the fire, and he hadn’t raided it in longer than he could remember. He wondered what expired beer tasted like for about two seconds before he popped the first one open, about to find out.

Three hours later, he came back. Sam was asleep, but Dean kept his angry gaze on John as he came back into the room. John put up a warning hand, but Dean ignored it, speaking his mind anyway.

“You ruined Christmas. You ruined it. Sam got sick and I had to buy Pepto for him instead of getting him a present. And you weren’t here and Sam got your journal—“

“Whose fault is that?!” John bellowed, and Sam stirred on his bed but John barely noticed.

“Yours!” Dean hissed, “You shouldn’t have let him get it! He thought you weren’t here because you died! He cried for two days thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere, and I—“

“That wouldn’t have happened, you know I was fine—“

“I don’t care, he didn’t know, and he cried for days! I stole a tree and some goddamn girl’s presents just to give him something and they were Barbies! You ruined Christmas,” Dean repeated in a hiss. 

John wanted to get away from Dean all over again. If Dean were older he’d toss the boy the keys to the Impala and tell him not to come back until John had had some time to think. 

If he was older, and if the world was safe.

There were two beds and three people here now. It was late on Christmas night, and while it wasn’t a solstice, the night was magical enough. Dangerous enough. The world around the motel was blanketed in snow and colder than Hell freezing over. They would all have to stay in here.

He knew his eyes were cold when he looked at Dean, and he hated it. But he needed to deal with this. There wasn’t a margin for error in a life like theirs, no matter the day or time. And, no, he wasn’t about to feel even worse about being late and broke, not when the boys had repaid him with disobedience like this. “You owe me ten miles. And double your crunches for a week.”

Dean stood up, went for the door, grabbing his jacket. John put up a hand, speaking quickly to get his attention before Dean got outside. “Not now. When we get to Bobby’s.” It wasn’t like John to explain himself, and he sure as shit didn’t feel like Dean deserved any explanations after he and Sam disobeyed John so flagrantly like this, but he couldn’t send Dean out now, and anyway, if he got both boys’ punishments out of the way at the same time that would drive things home better. He wasn’t about to wake Sam up and start screaming or setting tasks, not if half of what Dean said about the last two days was true.

Jesus. Sam. What was he going to do about Sam? He’d always known he’d have to tell Sam some version of the truth, and at least he had self-edited in the journal a little bit, knowing that Dean would get his hands on it someday, but he hadn’t imagined it going like this. Sam had stolen it. _Sammy_. The thought made him a little bit sick.

He wouldn’t be able to deal with all of this right now. He didn’t have every answer, and he was drunk and exhausted. He settled on finishing Dean’s orders for now, so he could stop talking and close his eyes.

“We head out in the morning. Go to sleep. Now.”

Dean gave a clipped nod and got into bed beside his brother, moving gingerly and working not to touch Sammy. That was good. He knew what he’d done, something of what the consequences would be, past whatever John could make him do. At least he knew that much.

He did feel sick inside, John decided. His little boy had stolen from him. And, no matter what life they led, Sam was still his little boy. John had withheld things too long, and that little boy had resorted to stealing to find the truth.

Well, he was a Winchester, all right. And the charade that he could be shielded from that somehow was over with a bang.

 _Sammy. Fuck, Sammy…_

“I need to make some calls.”

He went out the door, to the payphone in the lot, palming two quarters as he walked. The boys didn’t need to hear this. _Merry Christmas, Bobby, Jim, it happened and my family’s fucked forever. Again._ He left two short messages. Funny, calling the Pastor on Christmas night like that, needing the advice of a childless man of God. But Jim would listen. He knew that. And Jim knew the kids, maybe better than anyone, especially Sam, who even at this age spent more hours than John had thought possible in Jim’s library, even if he only read Jim’s carefully-selected kid books in there. With the messages left, John retraced his steps back out of the cold.

John slammed his way back into the room. Sam woke, took a look at his father, and squeezed his eyes shut again, oozing fear like sweat. John said nothing. There was nothing to say. He saw his youngest desperate for comfort from Dean—damn Dean—and saw Dean pointedly roll over, away from Sam, and then it happened. Sam’s eyes leaked silent tears. Tears John would never be able to stop. There was nothing to say.

He pretended to be ignoring Sam and did the only thing he could. He stretched out on what had been Dean’s bed. Sleep could never come fast enough, he thought, and then he winced. This would still be here in the morning. It would be here forever. 

 

_Merry Goddamn Christmas. Mary, I’m sorry. It’s such a mess without you here. Sammy needs you so bad. I need you. I can’t stop failing you, and Dean—Mary, I’m scared…_

_Mary…_

The thought of her, her face full of disappointment, was the last he had as sleep took him, cutting it all off until the morning, when it would all begin again.


End file.
